


there must be something more than dreaming

by samarskite



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Drunk Enjolras, Fluff and Angst, Getting Back Together, M/M, Mentions of (past) alcoholism, Misunderstandings, Post-Break Up, Smut, Unnecessary Latin quotes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-10
Updated: 2018-09-10
Packaged: 2019-07-10 19:03:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15955580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samarskite/pseuds/samarskite
Summary: In which Grantaire is doing better, it's four in the morning and Enjolras is tipsy and sad.





	there must be something more than dreaming

“Do you remember how we met?”, is the first thing Enjolras asks Grantaire as soon as he picks up the phone.

Grantaire had meant to ignore that call. Sure, its ringing had woken him up, and now that he was awake and startled he might as well answer, but he was well aware that it’d best for him not to do it.

He’s done it anyway, trying to commit to memory the feelings he felt as he pressed the green button, to give a closer look to them with his therapist on Wednesday morning.    

For years, the excuse for this sort of behaviour has been that Grantaire could never really deny anything to Enjolras. Enjolras has always asked, and Grantaire has always complied, from moment number one — “ _Excuse me, whatever-your-name-is, shut up and raise your hand if you want to speak_ ” — to moment number one hundred thousand — “ _Don’t leave, please, not tonight_ ”.

After five or six months of therapy, though, it is starting to become clear that most of the time it was the other way around, whether because Grantaire tends to turn manipulative if pushed or because Enjolras easily snaps if provoked, giving in to Grantaire’s antics and completely forgetting his previous, original demand. 

That explains a lot of things happened in the past ten years, but leaves a gap in the string of thought that led Grantaire from mumbling: “I am not picking up” to actually picking up. He tries to tell himself that Enjolras could be injured, or in a situation of distress whatsoever, but that explanation doesn’t quite cover the entirety of his decisional process.          

He just answers, and Enjolras asks him if he remembers how they met.    

He does.        

They lived on the same dorm floor, and Grantaire had found himself locked out of his own room with damp hair and only a towel around his waist, because Jehan had started dating Courfeyrac just days before and he had locked himself in the room with him — forgetting about Grantaire, who was only trying to wash away the fatigue of two hours of boxing in the shower.

Enjolras was going to the library, and had bumped into him in the hallway as he was walking towards the stairs.           

“ _Oh_ ”, he had said, blinking twice, then frowning and letting his eyes wonder on Grantaire’s body — a gesture that, at the time, had made him tremendously self-conscious and incredibly uncomfortable, but that he’d later learnt meant “I’m checking you out” in Enjolras-language — “ _Is there a problem?_ ”

Grantaire had checked him out already a few months before, as they often met at the campus’ cafeteria, so he already knew who Enjolras was: “ _Your roommate has locked himself in my room with my roommate_ ”, he had answered. “ _And they won’t open the door_ ”. 

“ _Oh_ ”, Enjolras had repeated. “ _Do you want some clothes_?”           

“ _That would be terrific, if you don’t mind_ ”.  

“I do”, Grantaire tells Enjolras over the phone, trying to not give away that he was asleep, even though it would be entirely for Enjolras’ benefit and he had promised himself he would stop doing that, stop hiding or diminishing the consequences that Enjolras’ actions bring on him. Good or bad they’d be. “Why?”         

“I was just thinking”, Enjolras answers on the other side of the line, his breath slightly heavier than normal. His voice is surrounded by a background noise composed primarily by footsteps, cars passing by and crunching leaves. What the hell is Enjolras doing in the streets at four in the morning? “I remember, but I didn’t know if you did, and it felt like an important thing to know”.

Grantaire, who had had his head resting on the pillow until now, props himself up on one elbow and tries to sit up. His mattress makes a squeaky sound. “Is everything alright?”, he asks, because this conversation is the less in-character conversation he’s ever had with Enjolras, and the regret of picking up the phone is being quickly washed away by worry.         

“No, I mean yes, I — what time is it? Did I wake you?”, Enjolras stutters. The ceased sound of crunching leaves suggests he has stopped walking, probably to check on his wristwatch, if Grantaire knows him the slightest. After a beat, Enjolras lets out a whine and the footsteps begin again. “I can’t see anything, for the love of — _whoa_ ”.  

The passing cars sound closer now, and Grantaire can even hear a faint car horn, somewhere in the night. He tries to speak and ask what’s wrong, but Enjolras stubbornly reiterates: “Is it late? Were you asleep?”, and then pointedly waits for an answer.  

Grantaire sighs and rubs his face with the hand that’s not holding the phone.

One thing that his therapist loves to often repeat, like a sort of mantra, is that there are many different types of obligations, and some are mandatory, some are nonexistent. One has first of all obligations towards himself, and only secondly obligations towards other people; sanity and judgment reside in being aware of the admittedly small grey area in which the former becomes the latter, and vice versa. But they also reside in the difference between self-preservation and a useful step outside your comfort zone.

He could’ve decided to not answer Enjolras’ call, and that would’ve been self preservation: they haven’t seen each other in two weeks, they broke up six months ago. Grantaire doesn’t owe him anything. Enjolras is not is responsibility.

And now, he has the power to hang up, and he may believe that would be an obligation towards himself, another act of self preservation, but he’s starting to suspect this call has just entered the grey area. Not cutting this call short is quickly becoming an obligation towards Enjolras, who sounds short of breath and tremendously confused.     

Grantaire still loves him enough to answer earnestly, but not unkindly: “It’s four in the morning, Enjolras. Yes, I was asleep”.          

Enjolras draws in a sharp breath; for three solid seconds, there’s only background noise on the other end of the line; then, Enjolras stammers: “I didn’t realise it was so late, I apologise — I lost track of time — I —”, a car horn, “shit — why won’t you let me _cross_!”, Enjolras whines again, to someone who is clearly not Grantaire.        

A terrible suspicion jumps on Grantaire’s bed and curls up on his lap, like a black cat that has finally chosen a new owner and now expects to be fed by him regularly. “Enjolras, are you drunk?”

Enjolras’ breath comes heavy from his phone’s speaker, and Grantaire can’t feel the hotness of it but can remember. “I was hoping it would slip unnoticed”, he confesses a moment later. There’s a sound of fabric against microphone, then a sigh and no more footsteps. Grantaire can only imagine Enjolras has sat down somewhere, most hopefully on a bench but more probably on a sidewalk’s step.

Retrospectively, it’s a good thing, that Grantaire has answered his call. To his knowledge, Enjolras has gotten drunk maybe three or four times in his life, and he has always had his friends to take care of him afterwards. 

Grantaire kicks the covers away and crosses his legs, because this is a situation he had never expected he’d live long enough to experience and he’s getting antsy. Why is Enjolras out drunk at four in the morning? Why is he calling him? Why does he sound so distressed?        
Is that how Enjolras felt all the times Grantaire called him while drunk off his ass, whiny, and sad, and self-deprecating? His therapist has been telling him to try to step into other people’s shoes for weeks by now, but this is just a slap in the face. How did Enjolras manage to endure so much during the time they were together? This, _all_ of this, but particularly the feeling of helplessness, is excruciating.

“Where are you?”, Grantaire asks, feeling a lump in the throat. How many times has Enjolras asked him that very same question, and how many times has he answered —   

“I don’t know”, Enjolras admits. Shame doesn’t suit him. It’s not his style, but it sounds honest and so, so apologetic, and it breaks Grantaire’s heart. But after a moment, Enjolras seems to recollect himself: “By the way, how are you?”, he asks, as if he had suddenly been reminded of what he had intended to ask all along.           

Grantaire sighs. “I’m fine, thanks. What about —”, he starts to ask, but then he changes his mind and jumps out of his bed. “No, actually, listen, I can’t do this. You almost got hit by a car twice while trying to cross the street, I can’t pretend it didn’t just happen. Don’t you have the slightest clue of where you are? Not even a hint? I’m coming to get you”.

Grantaire can practically see Enjolras frown, even though in reality he’s rummaging through his clean laundry pile to find a pair of jeans: “I was not fishing for —”

“I know you weren’t, but I don’t fucking care. Come on”, Grantaire snaps (and oh, how did Enjolras manage to not snap at him during those calls? He really used to date a saint).

He hears Enjolras let out a huff. Then: “There are, like, trees? I think I just walked through a park? And I’m downtown, yes, I’m definitely downtown”, he says. After a thoughtful pause, “I dined at my parents’”, he adds helpfully. The effort of being efficient, pretending he’s more sober than he actually is, is palpable in his voice and in the way he tries very hard to make every statement sound perfectly coherent. He used to do a similar thing when they were dating and he was trying very hard to not fall asleep while talking to Grantaire in bed, or when he tried to fake a faster recovery after a particularly intense orgasm, just to tease Grantaire out of spite.

Grantaire misses his guts, and it’s not like he didn’t know before, but this call is a really painful reminder.

“Fine, hang on there. I’m just going to put on my coat and take the car, and then I’m going to find you, okay?”, Grantaire tells him, trying to produce a pale imitation of the soothing voice Enjolras used when he picked him up from wherever he was after a night out with Bahorel.

“Uhm”, Enjolras mumbles, still not sounding very content of the turn the call has taken.

Grantaire rushes out of his apartment and unlocks his car as fast as he can, but doesn’t end the call.

He’s not sure why — maybe because Enjolras never did.

“And do you remember what you told me the last time we slept together?”, Enjolras suddenly asks, just as Grantaire is starting the engine.

Grantaire is fairly sure he quoted some classic poem, but he doesn’t remember which one. He was in a really bad place at the time, and it had happened just hours before he had told Enjolras he was going to rehab — which had led to their break up, so that whole night is a blur. Grantaire hadn’t blamed Enjolras at the time, and he doesn’t now. The rehab was only the first step of putting his shit together, and why should Enjolras have wanted to wait for him and stick around? At that time, Grantaire had thought, _I should’ve seen it coming._ Does he still believe it?

“I don’t”, Grantaire is forced to admit. “What did I say?”

“You were right beside me, and your head was resting on your arm, and looked so — sad, and you said something in Latin. I told you I had not understood, even though I was ashamed, because I felt like I should’ve understood anyway, and so you said —”

Enjolras hesitates for a moment; Grantaire is unsure whether he’s trying to remember the exact words or he’s just scared he’s going to say them wrong.

“ _Delights, nor credulous hope of mutual joy_ ;”, he recites at last. “ _Nor care I now healths to propound / Or with fresh flowers to girt my temples round. / But why, oh why, my Enjolras, / flow my thin tears down these pale cheeks of mine? / Or why my well-graced words among, / with an uncomely silence, fails my tongue? / Hard-hearted, I dream every night / I hold thee fast! but fled hence with the light, / whether in Mars his field thou be, / or Tiber's winding streams, hard, I follow thee._ ”

This is one of Grantaire’s favourite poems, and it’s an Ode by Horatius. He remembers it now, with frightening clarity. He had been so scared, at the time, so restless and desperate. Part of him hoped Enjolras would stay by his side.

As Grantaire drives through the almost deserted streets, passing by Enjolras’ parents’ house, (and then, one block ahead, a park) he slows down to look for him, and tries to think of a half-decent answer. “I remember now”, he says. “How do _you_ remember that?”

“I miss you”, Enjolras says, and it sounds like a confession, his voice so tiny Grantaire almost fails to hear it.

He doesn’t have an answer for that; he knows that he should be angry at the fact that Enjolras wants him back now that the worst part of him getting clean is done, but he’s too tired, exhausted and worried. He parks his car and gets out of it, because he thinks he saw a tiny figure squeezed between two parked cars a few metres behind, and hurriedly walks towards the point where Enjolras should be.

And there he is: four blocks away from where his parents live, his head resting on the back of a car that belongs to a stranger, curled up in his coat, holding his phone in one hand and a bottle of something in the other one — there is Enjolras.

It takes Grantaire only a few moments to notice that he has just fallen asleep: his mouth is slightly opened, his lips pale and chapped by the autumnal breeze. He sits beside Enjolras, and takes his time to look at him. His hair is longer than Grantaire remembers, and the street lamps don’t flatter his golden locks, or the circles under his eyes, but he still looks gorgeous.

The first time they kissed, Enjolras initiated it. It was at a party at Combeferre’s house, they were tipsy, and sweaty, and happy. Enjolras had had the nerve to kiss him senseless, even though they had just argued over something political, then dragged him to the bathroom and blowed him.

If Grantaire focuses enough, he still can feel Enjolras’ hair through his fingers, sometimes. Sometimes, he still gets off at the sheer memory of his touch. It’s not healthy, but it’s normal, his therapist has told him.

“Enjolras”, he whispers, tugging gently a lock of Enjolras’ hair behind the man’s ear. “I’m here, wake up”.

Enjolras reacts with a tiny jump of surprise, and then opens his eyes. Now that they’re face to face, it’s easy to tell that he’s tipsy: his eyes are big, glassy, unfocused. “I’m sorry I woke you up”, he says. “I had called you to say that I’m trying to be a better man, but this proves me wrong, doesn’t it?”

Grantaire doesn’t understand. Does Enjolras really think he could be better than he already is? He’s good at his job, he’s principled, fierce, full of talents, eloquent — and once he warms up to people, he can be the most understanding person on the planet. “Why —”, Grantaire tries to ask, but the question itself is so absurd that he struggles to voice it. “ _Why_ would you try to be a better man? You’re already the best version of a human being that can be found on Earth”.

Enjolras shakes his head, which is still resting against the random car. “I’m not, I’m shit. You didn’t want me to be beside you. You told me you had to pull yourself together, and sort your life out, and you said that it was going to take a long time, and you were going to disappear for a while, but you wanted to get better, and to do so you had to cut ties —”

“I had to cut ties from what was bad for _me_. I wanted to do it for or _you_ ”, Grantaire gapes, incredulous. No, actually, his therapist would be disappointed in this statement. “Well, no, I mean, for _myself_ , but you were, like, the second person on the list that deserved better than my derailing, useless, wrecking-ball-like alcoholic self”.

Enjolras is staring at him. He has put his phone back in his pocket and is now nervously clutching the bottle. “You never said”, he said, sadly. “You did this beautiful speech, and I was so happy and so proud, but — I —”. He lets out a chocked, frustrated sob. “How do I not make this about myself? I knew, I understood, I just — I guess I’m trying to say that I felt like I wasn’t in the picture, that I was part of what had to be cut, and —”.

His friends had warned him. His therapist had warned him. _Are you sure Enjolras broke up with you because he didn’t want to stick around during your recover? Did he actually tell? It doesn’t sound like Enjolras. He loves you, Grantaire. Talk to him. Have you spoken to him? Grantaire. Have you spoken to him?_

But, of course, he never did.

“Oh my God”, Grantaire breathes out, as he tugs Enjolras in an embrace. Enjolras falls into his arms as if he were a doll, but holds him so tight it almost hurts.

He doesn’t know for how long they stay like this, but he eventually manages to get Enjolras stand on his feet and walk him to the car.

“I miss you”, Enjolras repeats in a whisper, as they’re driving to Grantaire’s apartment.  
Grantaire wordlessly puts a hand on Enjolras’ thigh, and leaves it there until they get home.

He leads Enjolras up to his apartment, with an arm around his waist. It’s complicated, fishing for the keys out of his pockets and opening the door with only one hand, but this whole night almost feels like a dream, and he feels like if he lets Enjolras go, he’s going to fly away.

He opens the door of his apartment. “I still love you”, Enjolras mumbles against Grantaire’s neck while they’re stepping inside. “And I’m so — sorry, about everything”.

It occurs to Grantaire that he actually hasn’t said anything back to Enjolras, during the entirety of their conversation. Months ago he probably wouldn’t have noticed, expecting Enjolras to read it in his eyes, probably, or in the desperate way he’s holding him, digging his fingers in the flash of his waist; this is one of the main reasons why, maybe, this pain has been useful. Who knows if they would’ve worked, in a universe where they didn’t break up. Maybe Grantaire would still expect Enjolras to read his mind, and Enjolras would still demand from him more than he can give. Who knows, what if.

Grantaire blindly throws the keys somewhere, then turns towards Enjolras. He finds him already looking at Grantaire.

Only then he notices that Enjolras is wearing a black suit and even a black bow tie; it probably means that today was one of his parents’ birthday. Enjolras doesn’t see them often, and Grantaire wonders what he told them about their break up, or even if he told them at all about it.  
He lets go of Enjolras’ waist; the man sways slightly, but then steadies himself as soon as Grantaire helps him get out of his coat.

Grantaire throws it towards the sofa, then turns back to Enjolras.

 _What’s best for myself?,_ he asks himself. _Could the obligations towards myself not clash and burn against the obligations towards him, but add up and become an obligation towards us?_

He cups Enjolras’ face with both of his hands. Enjolras is looking at him, pale and tired and expectant and maybe, for the first time in his life, scared.

“ _I hold thee fast_ ”, Grantaire whispers. “ _but fled hence with the light, whether in Mars his field thou be, or Tiber's winding streams, hard, I follow thee_ ”.

Enjolras’ mouth is there, already open for him, ready to welcome his lips and his tongue, and it feels like coming home. Grantaire feels his heartbeat speed up, because how many times he had dreamt this, and how many times he has woken up in a hospital bed instead, how unfair, how unfair! Enjolras lets out a whine that’s completely different from the previous whines he produced during the night. It’s a shaky, needy one.

That whine, Grantaire has heard many times in the past. It resonates through his bones, it makes him shaky, breathless and hard.

“I missed you so much”, Enjolras mumbles against his mouth, clumsily shrugging off his jacket, and that’s better, that’s much better, because now Grantaire can almost feel his skin through the thin fabric of the shirt, and he can yank it up, undo the bow tie, and touch him all over, for all the times he hasn’t done it in the past six months.

“Enjolras”, Grantaire says, breaking the kiss, suddenly struck with the fact that all of this started because Enjolras is _drunk_. His mouth tastes like expensive wine and cheap bourbon.

The other man, however, drowns the following intended sentence with another whine, softer this time but more guttural, as if Grantaire saying his name was more than he could take, and kisses him again. Grantaire has the sudden desire to repeat Enjolras’ name infinite times, just out of curiosity, to see what happens, but this is more important.

“Enjolras, you’re drunk”, he tries to reason, “you’re going to regret this in the morning, you’re —”

But Enjolras shakes his head and drops on his knees. It’s a movement so sudden the fall must be quite hard, and his knees are almost surely going to be bruised tomorrow. But it’s also a movement that perfectly mirrors the one he did in Combeferre’s bathroom, years ago, and it clouds Grantaire’s judgment for five solid seconds.

Those five seconds, apparently, are all Enjolras needs to undo the zip and yank Grantaire’s jeans and underwear down to his ankles. “You have no idea”, the man says, with determined eyes and flushed cheeks, “ _no idea_ how many times I’ve jerked off to the memory of this” and, well, at least that makes the two of them.

Grantaire tries again, he really does, but when Enjolras has set his mind to something, if you lack a matching motivation you’re destined to failure. “Okay, you used to be the one who was all about consent, remem — ooohhh _shit_ ”, he falters, as Enjolras’ mouth takes him in and starts sucking him off. His hands, traitors, encouragely fly to Enjolras’ hair and grab it. “Oh my god, _yes_ ”.

They are in the middle of Grantaire’s living room, the dawn is painting in pink its white walls, he has had four hours of sleep and Enjolras — his ex?, his ex ex? — is blowing him. He could die now, honestly, and he would be a happy man.

“No, Enj, listen, oh my _god_ , stop, shit, just —”. Enjolras pulls off with a loud _pop_ and disappointment on his face.

He admittedly looks sobered up, at least in comparison to when Grantaire found him. His hair is a mess, sticking out everywhere. His lips are red and wet, his cheeks flushed, but his eyes are darkened, less glassy, as if the hard on he’s palming through his fancy pants had partly washed away the drunkenness. When he speaks, his voice is rough: “I know what I want. I’ve wanted it for the last six months, awaken, asleep, sober and drunk. I swear. I would not _drive_ , for what it’s worth, but I’m sober enough to know what I’m doing”. After a beat, he adds, quieter: “Please, it’s been so long”.

There is one thing that needs to be said about Enjolras: he usually doesn’t beg. He asks politely most of times, some times more forcefully than others, but he very rarely begs. Maybe it’s pride, maybe it simply doesn’t come naturally to him, who knows. But when it happens, Grantaire can simply not resist. He nods.

They stumble towards Grantaire’s bedroom, with which Enjolras used to be acquainted, once. “You moved the furniture”, Enjolras notices, while Grantaire’s busy taking off his t-shirt.  
Grantaire throws the t-shirt away: “Yeah, I’ve been told I needed change. And it reminded me of you, so...”, he explains, then he trails off.

Enjolras ponders. “I like it better now”, he says.

“Yeah?”, Grantaire asks, while he tries to undo the button of Enjolras’ trousers.

“Yeah, it looks like there’s more light, it’s more functional, and —”

“Pardon me, am I trying to fuck Alexander Enjolras or an IKEA employee?”, Grantaire asks, stealing a quick kiss before tugging the trousers down; that startles a breathless laugh out of Enjolras, who, at the mention of fucking, looks a little spaced out already.

They kiss again, and it’s messy and needy and so, so good. “Me”, Enjolras says out of breath, tilting his head to give Grantaire better access to kiss and nip and scrap his neck. “Please, you should definitely fuck me”.

Grantaire had forgotten how responsive Enjolras can be during sex, and how well they work together. Breath after breath, movement after movement, bits of memories come back to him — what Enjolras likes, what _he_ likes — and experimentally repeats them, to see if anything’s changed, if someone in those six months has showed Enjolras new things or made him change his mind about old ones.

“Shit”, Enjolras pants below him, his hands clawing his back and almost surely leaving scratches. “ _Fuck, yes_ ”.

“Good?”, Grantaire asks, and tries to hide the genuine question with a smirk. There will be no night like tonight. Tonight he needs to hear it from him, he needs to hear every thought, every feeling Enjolras is feeling right now.

“So —”, Enjolras tries to say, but the answer is cut off by his own moan. “ _There_ ”.

When he has the right motivation, Grantaire _can_ commit to something. Even his therapist told him so. He can focus, and never get distracted until the task is done; so, that’s what he does here and now. He reaches for the headboard and holds onto it, then tries to hit the spot Enjolras has found as relentlessly as he can.

Enjolras underneath him is _obscene_. One of his hand is still on Grantaire’s back, while the other one is convulsively grasping the sheets, his mouth is wide open, is skin veiled with sweat, and the sounds, fuck _, the sounds_ he’s making, could drive Grantaire mad anywhere at any time.

“Can you come for me?”, he asks, because he’s almost there, he’s getting there. He bites lightly Enjolras’ earlobe and is rewarded with a whimper. “Just like this, can you do that, love?”

 “Grantaire, Gran — there — _yes_ —”, Enjolras sobs, and then he’s coming untouched, and that simple sight is enough to drive Grantaire over the edge too.

Grantaire falls onto the mattress, beside Enjolras, with a groan; the man next to him looks dazed, and _wrecked_. There are cum on his bare chest, the beginning of bruises on his hips and a few hickeys on his collarbones. His hair and skin are still sweaty, and his eyes half lidded.

“I missed you too, you know”, Grantaire says, just to clear the air. Enjolras, with his curls everywhere and his limp limbs, produces a sleepy, sated smile: “Uh?”, he mumbles questioningly.

“I’m five months clean. I see a therapist. I’m doing better now”, Grantaire continues, as if this was some kind of stupid job interview. “I don’t know if it’s enough, but —”

Enjolras moves one single finger towards Grantaire, who locks it with one of his own. “You w’re alw’ys ‘nough”, he mumbles lazily, then tugs their intertwined fingers. Grantaire guesses it’s an invite to kiss him, so he does. When he feels Enjolras smile, he’s glad he has guessed right.

“I’m still learning”, he whispers.

“’s okay”, Enjolras mutters, already half way to dozing off, “we’r l’rning togeth’r”. And then he’s asleep.

Grantaire shuffles slightly, to position himself more comfortably, then closes his eyes.

Sleep comes fast, and when it comes, it is peaceful.

He’s found something more than dreaming.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't even know, I feel like I always follow the same clichés by now but I needed an excuse to avoid studying latin (as you can see from the Horatius quote. I found the english translation [here](https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/book-4-ode-1-venus), but I took the liberty to add 'hard' in the last line, even though I probably fucked up the metrics, because the translation completely ignored its presence in the original verse — which is [...] _sequor / te per gramina Martii / campi, te per aquas, dure, volubilis_ ).
> 
> The title is from a song by half•alive, aawake at night.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed,
> 
> Sam


End file.
